William Lisle Bowles

At Dover

Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm,That, borne on Terror's desolating wings,Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flingsThe shivered surge; when rising griefs deformThy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,--When thou dost mark the melancholy tideBeneath thee, and the storm careering wide,--Tossed on the surge of life how many sink!And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet,And if thy heart be smitten, when the cryOf danger and of death is heard more nigh,Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget;Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to saveOne who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.